


Raise Me From Dust

by MundaneChampagne



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alchera, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body snatching - both accidental and on purpose, Graphic Description of Corpses, Lazarus Project, Mass Effect 2: Lair of the Shadow Broker, Multi, Playing with Tense, Resurrection kinda sucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 22:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7241752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneChampagne/pseuds/MundaneChampagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Shepard died over Alchera, she was not alone.</p><p>And when Shepard’s body was retrieved, she was not alone.</p><p>And when Shepard is resurrected, she is not alone.</p><p>There's a war brewing, and the Shadow Broker will be damned if he loses. And no one is willing to settle for being second best. No matter who gets caught in the crossfire along the way.</p><p>Sporadic updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One more of my works-in-progress. This piece may not be finished anytime soon; I'm uncertain of quite where I want to take it, but I like it a lot and want to share what I have!

When the beam from the enemy ship split the Normandy around them, when Shepard was thrown from the escape pod, he didn't think, but jumped after her.

And then the remnants of the Normandy fell away from them, and the escape pod engines flared, and they were alone in the dark.

"Garrus, what the hell?" Shepard said. Her voice was thin over the com.

"I couldn't leave you on your own," he said. They're close enough that he could seize her hand, pull her close.

Shepard looked up. Garrus followed her gaze, seeing the white planet looming above them. "We're not going to last a day," she said, "before we hit atmo. And once that happens, we die. The escape pods are gone. We can't anticipate rescue."

"I know," he said, and she squeezed his hand.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for?"

She turned to him, her gaze boring into him. "You shouldn't have to die."

"And neither should you," he said.

She pulled him closer, not letting go but embracing him in a hug.

And then she stiffened, let go of him, her hand going to the back of her neck. Garrus could suddenly hear her breathing over the com, and the hyperventilating scared him. "Shepard, are you—?"

And then he saw the air venting from her suit.

He pulled her close, wrapping a hand around her as he reached back. "Hold on, Shepard, we can fix this." His hand scrabbled over the tubes, pinched one in his fingers, tried to plug it back into the seal. But it wasn't working. Her breathing turned to gasping as he worked. "Hold on, hold on," he said over and over, trying to calm her.

But her struggles weakened, and she turned to face him, her expression terrified. "Shepard," he whispered, and the flow of air stopped, because there wasn't any left.

Her hands reached for him, and he left the air tube, and held onto her for all he was worth. And when her embrace weakened, well, he held onto her all the tighter.

He would be damned if he let her die alone.

He didn't know exactly when she died in his arms, didn't know how long they were suspended in space together, had no inkling of when the planet's gravity began to take ahold of them and drag them down into the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Time didn't exist here, not when they tumbled through the air currents, not as the world blurred around him and the forces tore at his insides. As he burned, and Shepard burned, and nothing made sense anymore and the world slipped away.

He never let go. Not even in death.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a race.

The Shadow Broker is early out of the gate. Before the funerals have even taken place, he has a team of Blue Suns hired and dispatched to Alchera. They are able to locate and retrieve the package, but have to bring the hanger-on. The turian was clutching Shepard so tightly that they have to be thawed out and carefully separated.

The asari doctor and Cerberus break next. The Cerberus team waits for the Shadow Broker to finish up the dirty work, and plan to snatch Shepard before the Shadow Broker sells her to the Collectors and she is lost to them forever. Liara has less information to go on than Cerberus, but quickly catches up to the rest of the pack with the assistance of one of the Shadow Broker’s informants, who is secretly working for Cerberus. It's a complex network, and every second it takes Liara to unravel is one second longer that Shepard spends in the hands of the Shadow Broker, destined for the Collectors in the end.

Not much attention is paid to the second body.

The Blue Suns figure what the hell, they might be able to sell the turian to someone. Make a little extra off this job. So they pack the body up into its own pod, and bring it along with them to the drop point.

Which is when Liara interferes, but the Shadow Broker’s agent is able to spirit away Shepard’s body, and then Cerberus swoops in and makes a deal with Liara.

In all the commotion, the second body is pushed off to the side, where it's found by a dockworker who has snuck off his shift to have a cigarette.

The unscrupulous human praises his luck. Whoever this body is, it must be quite valuable if three parties are fighting over its companion.

So he takes it with him.

 

"Trafficking in bodies now, Harrison?" the turian dockworker asked. "That's disgusting."

Harrison grinned and snubbed his cigarette out on a wall. "He's dead, what does he care? Besides, the Shadow Broker wants it. How much do you think he'll be willing to pay?"

"How much you wanna bet that he'll just come after you and shoot you to get it back?" the turian said. He glanced at the pod. The window where the face was frosted over. "Poor bastard doesn't deserve this."

"Ah lay off, Sid," Harrison sneered. "This is why you'll never amount to anything. Too scared to get your hands dirty."

Lantar Sidonis rolled his eyes. Harrison was disgusting, but very much the norm on Omega. He didn't fit in here. Never had.

What he wouldn't give to get out of here.

And in that moment, his wish was granted. He just didn't know it yet.

"There he is," a voice said.

Lantar turned his head, and saw a squad of Blue Suns enter the docking area.

Harrison saw them too, and blanched.

"That's ours," the squad leader said, gesturing at the pod. "Hand it over and no one needs to get shot."

"Yeah?" Harrison tried to put on a brave face, but Lantar could see him shaking. "Seems to me that you were careless enough to lose it, and you're lucky that I picked it up and kept it safe. See, I can't be sure you're going to properly take care of it. But a little finder's fee would put those worries to rest. So," he continued, "what do you say?"

The Suns looked at each other and laughed. "Thinks we’ll pay him for stealing our package. Amazing."

"Well if you want it back, you'll pay up," Harrison said, and drew his pistol.

Lantar quickly ducked away, and in the ensuing firefight that drew a bunch of other dockworkers and some bystanders who just wanted a good scrap, Lantar managed to get himself and the body out of there.

He paused for a moment, leaning up against a wall and trying to catch his breath.

He glanced at the pod. The window was still frosted over and he couldn't see the corpse within. And the enormity of what he'd done crashed over him.

He'd stolen a body, apparently one that both the Blue Suns and the Shadow Broker had an interest in. They were both dangerous enemies to have. He shook his head, ran his hands over his face.

He shouldn’t’ve done that. And what could he really do now? Abandon the body, flee? He wouldn’t be able to return to his job at the docks, Harrison would have his head if he was still alive. And the Suns had seen his face; they would know.

He glanced at the body. “This is all your fault,” he muttered. And he pulled his mandibles tight against his face, and set off into the Omega shadows, pushing the pod with him.

He took the body back to his tiny basement-level apartment. The pod levitated easily down the stairs. Lantar flopped back on a chair and sighed, staring at his prize.

He didn’t know what to do with it. It would be good if he could figure out the proper funeral rites and get those taken care of. Then maybe the poor spirit inside could rest. He didn’t know what species it was, and even if he had, wasn’t familiar with burial practices for every race out there.

There was a small computer screen embedded into the front of the pod. Lantar leaned forward, curious, and flipped it on.

Stasis: Active. Internal temperature: 0 degrees. For preserving the body, he figured.

DNA Analysis: Turian. Male.

Well that made things relatively easier. He could cremate the body, leave a stick of incense, put everything to rest. And then he could pack up, leave, find somewhere else where he wouldn’t be found by the Suns.

It would be easy to move on. He’d done so half a dozen times in his 28 years.

And at that moment, someone kicked down his door.

 

"I don't know," Liara said. "This doesn't seem right."

"Humanity’s greatest hero, Doctor T'soni," Miranda Lawson replied. "Shepard is an icon. We need her more than ever before."

Liara exhaled. "At least she's with people who appreciate her," she said, her voice emotionless. "Take care of her. I have another friend I need to save."

"The Shadow Broker doesn't forgive betrayal," Miranda said. "It's most likely too late for the drell."

"Still," said Liara, "I have to try."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for small mention of vomiting.

The intruders fanned out into the apartment. Guns pointed at Lantar Sidonis’s head. One of them checked on the pod. "Package is secure," he reported.

"Excellent," the leader said, his aim never wavering from between Lantar 's eyes.

"You're not Suns," Lantar said, remembering Harrison’s claims. He swallowed. "You're the Shadow Broker's agents, aren't you."

The three armed men glanced at each other. "Got it in one," the leader said. "You know about the Shadow Broker, do you?"

Shit. "I don't know anything else, I swear. I won't try to stop you, just don't kill me, please."

They looked at each other again. "The Broker would rather not have his interest be known at all. I don't want to kill you, but we don't have much choice."

Lantar started shaking. "I—I won't say anything. I can keep this quiet. I—please."

One of them snorted. "I've never seen a turian beg so pathetically before."

"Enough!" said the leader. He pressed a hand to his ear, presumably listening to a com. After a moment, he came to a decision. "We've got the package, we've got the traitor—we've got room enough for one more. The boss wants him."

One of them grumbled, but didn't object. The leader nodded. "Turn around, hands behind your back," he ordered.

It wasn't the way Lantar had pictured leaving Omega.

 

He was cuffed to a bench in the cargo bay of a small ship. The pod was secured in along with him.

The room was dark, only a single blue light providing more shadows than illumination.

Lantar just about jumped out of his skin when he heard a rustling coming from the other side of the bay. Vivid thoughts of the body coming back to life were suppressed when a raspy voice called out, "Who are you?"

"I—who are you? The agent said something about a traitor."

A pause. "That would be me," the voice said. "I used to work for the Broker. When he ordered me to do something unconscionable, I went behind his back and negotiated a deal with a rival party. Now I'm here. I expect his reprisal will be painful."

"What did he ask you to do?"

The voice hesitated. Lantar waited, his heart pounding in his ears. "Do you know whose body is in that pod?"

Lantar shook his head, then, remembering that the traitor probably couldn't see him, added, "No." He took a breath. "Turian male, the DNA scanner said. I don't know—who that could be. Who the Shadow Broker would want."

"One of Commander Shepard’s crew," the traitor said. "Garrus Vakarian, formerly of C-Sec. Killed in action in the same attack as Shepard.”

Lantar 's eyes widened. Served under Shepard. A hero.

"But the Shadow Broker doesn't want him," the traitor continued. "No, the Broker lost his real prize. I was asked to retrieve Shepard's body and help facilitate the sale of her body to the Collectors. Vakarian was merely a coincidence."

The Collectors. A legend, surely? What would they want with a human hero's corpse?

"The human organization Cerberus also wanted Shepard," the traitor continued. "I believed that they would do better by Shepard than those vultures. So I went behind the Broker's back to get Shepard back to her own people."

Lantar breathed out. "Spirits," he whispered.

"I'm guessing that the Broker doesn't want to let go of his consolation prize. Hence the measures he went to to get Vakarian back. I'm assuming you got in the way."

"I just didn't want to die," Lantar said. "I'm not sure this is any better." He hesitated. "What's your name?"

"Feron. Yours?"

"Lantar."

He could hear Feron sigh. "Well, Lantar. Realistically, we’re both fucked. But I’m glad I’m not alone in this.”

Lantar looked over at the pod again. Amazing how two dead heroes could cause so much trouble.

 

He dozed on and off during the journey, losing track of time. It might've been a day, maybe a little less. 

Feron didn't say much. Lantar suspected that he was contemplating his fate, same as Lantar was.

Eventually, the tenor of the engine sounds changed. Lantar jerked awake.

"End of the line," Feron murmured.

And then there was a slam, and light flooded the cargo bay and Lantar’s eyes burned.

There was a clunking sound, and when Lantar's eyes adjusted, he could see the pod being taken away. Someone came up to him, and freed his wrists. Lantar stood, rubbing the soreness out of his arms.

The krogan pointed to the airlock. "Move," he said. Lantar moved, but glanced back at his travelling companion.

Feron was a drell. "Godspeed," Lantar whispered, fearing for him.

Feron nodded. "And to you."

And Lantar was shoved onto the space station where he would spend the next two years of his life.

 

"It's even worse than we projected," Miranda said. "But the work plan does account for contingencies. I made sure of it."

Wilson chewed his lip. "Did you account for a lump of charcoal in armor? Cause that's what we've got here."

They stared down at the operating table. Wilson's description was fairly accurate. Understated, if anything. Heroes burned just like anyone else.

Miranda sighed. "We'll have to revise the timeline. Allow more time for basic preparation. See what you can do about removing that armor. At this point, I'm not too fussed about any damage; we're going to be rebuilding most of her anyway."

Wilson's lip curled. "Yes, boss," he said, and snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. He gestured over his shoulder. "Circ saw," he called, and an assistant scrambled for the lab's tool box.

Miranda watched for a few moments, then turned and left. The saw buzzed behind her, and made a terrible noise as it tore into Shepard's armor.

The Illusive Man had demanded the impossible of her. But Miranda knew that anything was possible, if you had enough drive to pull it off. She would not let her boss down.

 

The space station was small and clean, and quiet and white, and spartan.

He'd been here a few days. There were a number of people in residence; none of them talked to him. Scientists for the most part, he gathered, hearing a bunch of them discussing protein structures over lunch.

It was like floating in a dream world. He was left to his own devices, and the people came and went around him.

Three days later, he was called to a part of the station he'd never seen before.

The lab was spacious and well equipped. With a surge of fear, Lantar saw that the stasis pod was sitting off to one side, and was open and empty.

The lead scientist, an imposing asari, gestured him impatiently over to the table in the middle of the room. She handed him a surgical mask to put on. "Don't touch anything," she ordered.

He nodded and slipped on the mask, stepped up to the table.

He supposed it was slightly turian shaped. The body lay on its side, curled up in a fetal position. The armor was blackened and deformed. It might've once been blue.

"What the hell are we doing," a human scientist muttered.

"What we're ordered to," the asari replied. "Just be glad we're not starting from scratch, like the informant is."

The human shifted on his feet. "Humans have stories about this," he said. "The folly of tampering with life and death."

"And you're here because you love it," the asari replied.

"Can't lie," the human said.

The asari laughed. "No government would ever sanction this. Be glad our benefactor doesn't have the same reservations." She reached out a gloved hand, placed it on the dead turian's head. She shook it slightly, and the head wiggled in a way that living flesh would not.

Lantar just managed to tear off his mask and make it to a trash can before he threw up. His chest heaved, and he grasped the sides of the trash can, shaking and breathing in great breaths of air.

Fucking hell. What had he gotten himself into?

 

They didn't bring him back to the lab for a while. The conversations he overheard at meals were disturbing enough.

Instead, he closeted himself up in his meager quarters, losing himself in the extranet. After a few false starts, he finally worked up the courage to run a search on Garrus Vakarian.

He didn't find much. Most of it was related to Shepard's mission. There were profiles on the crew of the first human Spectre. Lantar was surprised to see a number of non humans on the team, including a krogan and quarian. Whatever else she may be, Shepard was definitely not racist.

Vakarian was most often referred to as an ex C-Sec officer. His name was mentioned in connection with a few high profile cases, but it was hard to find anything else. Lantar couldn't suss out what kind of person he'd been.

He did find a number of photos though. Vakarian was handsome. Tall, the color of steel and sand, and with bold blue markings that marked him as being from a respected family in Cipritine. Lantar never found a photo of him without the visor, which disguised his piercing blue eyes.

At one point, he found a video of a C-Sec press conference that Vakarian had spoken at. The case sounded disturbing, something about organ trafficking, but Lantar lost track of the details and focused on Vakarian instead.

He was obviously furious about losing the culprit, and spoke in short, pointed sentences. There was an intensity about him that matched his physical appearance, and he was quickly ushered away from the podium by the C-Sec Executor.

Lantar paused the video, and stared at the image on the screen, lingering on Vakarian’s face.

 

It was hard to reconcile that intensity, that life, with the thing in the lab. 

He poked in every so often, looking for something, some sign, that it would work, and that Garrus Vakarian would be alive again.

He was disappointed. The work was slow. They'd gotten the armor off, and rearranged what was left into a lying down position. Titanium bones were being designed and cast. They lay on another table in the lab, shiny and out of place beside the ruined body.

The bones were ok. It was the other things that repulsed him, the thin strips of tissue and muscle arrayed in their growing media. The fragile white skeletons that would soon be organs, and the cybernetic components that would step in where biology couldn't.

Lantar shuddered, and slipped further away into his research, and speculation.

What did the Shadow Broker even want with Vakarian? From what Lantar could tell, Vakarian had a strong sense of righteousness, and he couldn't imagine Vakarian being ok with whatever the Broker would require of him.

For Lantar was sure that Vakarian would be used by the Broker. Why else invest the time, the money, otherwise?

And why was he here? What reason did the Broker have for keeping Lantar around? He wasn't a scientist, he was a coward, and had no better insight into Vakarian than anyone else.

Sometimes Lantar wondered what had happened to Feron. And if a similar fate was waiting for him.

 

For Miranda, it is an art.

An art derived from chemical assays, cell cultures, numbers, numbers, more numbers. Her palette, the biology—her canvas, the organism. Shepard—it is all about Shepard, but not the person, not yet—the brain, the mind, that comes later. For now, the physicality is enough.

For Wilson, it is a job. Nothing more. He gets his pay from Cerberus, gets a bonus from the Shadow Broker for his information, gets ragged on by Miranda, who insists on perfection.

Nothing is perfect, he wants to scream at her. Shepard wasn't perfect, she isn't going to be perfect, I'm not perfect, and you especially, are not perfect.

For the Illusive Man, it is an investment. Like the seed vaults that preserve the genetic treasure of Earth, like a grey box, a backup—or a beacon—something to fling into the future in hopes that it will glow and illuminate the way.

For the Shadow Broker, it is a sworn promise. That he will reclaim what was taken from him, and have the grim satisfaction of turning the enemy's tactics against them. A promise that he will adapt, and survive.

For Lantar Sidonis, it is a small hope. Insidious, that small ember that can give rise to a blaze. That he will get out of here, and rescue the poor sad corpse from those who seek to use it, and that they both can gain some measure of peace.

There's nothing for Shepard and Vakarian. They're dead. They don't get a say in any of this.


	4. Chapter 4

The galaxy moves on around them. The first time Shepard's heart beats, Miranda’s own jumps in her chest. The first time Lantar sees a working digestive system laid bare, he nearly throws up again, and decides to stay away from the lab for a while.

Things come together. Miranda submits optimistic reports to her boss. Lantar is given a project for the first time—a series of psychological profiles on Vakarian. He reads around the jargon, and starts putting his own ideas together.

Then Miranda hits a snag.

The time has come to begin working on the brain and nervous system. Shepard had died of suffocation, and the resulting lack of oxygen caused extensive cell damage. How could she reconstruct a brain if half of it was gone? A body was fine, but the Illusive Man insisted that Shepard be brought back exactly as she was. How to reconstruct a mind, memories, a full person?

There is no such issue when it comes to Vakarian. He died from the atmospheric entry. There's no hypoxia to contend with, and Wilson finds himself providing information that is untested.

Things proceed apace.

 

And then it is done.

Well, hypothetically. Where there was a corpse, there is now a living man. There is a heartbeat, blood flows, and brainwaves arc gracefully on the monitor. It's been several weeks now. Vakarian is alive, just unconscious. The scientists get tired of monitoring him, waiting for him to wake. They leave that job to the machines.

Lantar waits. And watches.

 

There was something there.

Light hitting his eyelids. Air currents. A vague humming sound.

He’s content for now to lie back, just exist.

But eventually a thought surfaced, disturbed his ease.

Shepard.

Normandy.

And then—pain.

He had to—where was Shepard?

Garrus’s eyes flew open, and the bright lights sent stabs of pain into his head. He closed his eyes, began to panic. All that white—the planet was white too, wasn't it? The planet that had pulled them inexorably downward—

And as his panic grew, and his breathing accelerated, alarms started going off. They weren't in his head.

Garrus sat up, then clutched his head in his hands as dizziness overwhelmed him. His breath shuddered, and he screwed his eyes shut.

The alarms bored into his skull. He tried to calm his breathing, tried to make sense of things. Where was Shepard?

He opened his eyes again, and his vision blurred. He squinted, trying to make things out.

He was sitting on a table in what looked like a lab. He was naked, and connected to the machines that were making the alarm sounds.

Garrus began ripping off the wires attached to his chest. The heart rate monitor went crazy, letting out a high pitched ringing sound. He tore the IV out, ignoring his arm as it started to bleed. The sensors on his head were next, and he looked down and carefully removed the catheter. How long had he been out? Where was he? This didn't seem like a hospital, and his suspicions grew.

When he looked up again, the lab was no longer empty.

There was a turian in there, dressed in a lab coat and wearing a concerned expression. "Vakarian," he said, "You're awake."

Garrus lunged off the table and wrapped his hands around the turian’s throat. He backed him into a wall. "Where is Shepard?" he snarled. "Where am I? Who do you work for?"

The turian struggled, trying to pry Garrus's hands away. His eyes were wide, and he opened his mouth, trying to draw air. He tried to form words, but couldn't.

Eventually, Garrus’s strength gave out and he let go. The turian slumped to the floor, breathing in great ragged gasps. Garrus leaned up against the wall, shaking.

The turian coughed, and slowly pulled himself up, backing away from Garrus. He now eyed Garrus warily. Good, Garrus thought. "Where is Shepard?" he asked again, putting some venom into his voice, trying not to let it shake.

The turian shook his head. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? We were there together. Where did you take her?"

"I don't know! I never saw her, I don't know what happened. She's dead, as far as I know."

Dead. So it was true, and not just a bad dream. His breath hitched, and he let out a keen of distress. "How'd I get here?" he asked. "What is this place?"

"You were brought here when I was," the turian said. "I don't know where we are. No one ever told me."

Garrus's blood ran cold. "This isn't a hospital, is it?"

"No."

"Am I a prisoner?"

The turian swallowed. "I—I don't—"

"What did they do to me? How long was I out?"

"I—Can you just stop with the questions for a moment and calm down? I'm not going to hurt you. I just—I don't know how to explain this. Any of this."

"Explain what?" Garrus shouted. "I need some answers here!"

"Please," the turian said. He reached out a hand to Garrus. "I'll do the best I can, but please give me a moment." He took a breath. "Are you feeling ok? Do you need food or anything? And, uh, I can try to find you some clothes."

Garrus deflated. "Clothes would be good," he said. His voice was raspy, and his vocal cords strained, as though he was unused to talking. He must've been out for quite a while, to be feeling like this.

The turian nodded, and opened a cabinet and rummaged around. He came up with a set of medical scrubs. "These should fit for now," he said, and pulled up two chairs while Garrus dressed. Garrus collapsed into the chair. His whole body felt wobbly all of a sudden.

"What's your name?" he asked. It was as good a starting point as any.

"Lantar."

"Are you a doctor or something?"

Lantar looked confused for a moment, then realized that Garrus was eyeing the lab coat. "No," he said. "It's required, helps keep the lab sterile. I don't entirely know what I'm doing here, but they kept me around for something."

Dread settled into Garrus 's gut. "Are you a prisoner?" he asked. "Who's 'they'?"

"I might as well be," Lantar said. "And it's the Shadow Broker. This whole thing is his operation."

The Shadow Broker? Garrus remembered how difficult he'd made their lives when trying to track down information on Saren. No one had ever seen the Broker in person. As far as Garrus knew, he was just an information dealer. A powerful one who could sway history simply with a word, but just an information dealer. Whatever this was, it seemed a little out of character.

"What kind of operation are we talking?" Garrus asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Lantar hesitated. "It was you," he said. "You were dead. The scientists he employed rebuilt you, brought you back to life."

Garrus blinked. He sat back further in his chair. "That's not possible," he said stupidly.

Lantar shook his head, looking like he was going to cry. "It's true. I remember when they brought your body in. It's been nearly two years since then."

Two years? Dead? Two _years?_

"I was dead? For two years?"

"A year and eight months," Lantar said. His eyes lingered on Garrus. "I'm sorry," he added. "There's no good way to find that out."

Garrus shook his head, his mind numb. "I don't—why?"

"I don't know. He wants something of you, I'm sure of it, but I don't know what." He sighed. "Please be careful. This whole business makes me worried." He stood. "I should probably get someone in here to look at you. You seem fine to me, but I'm no expert." He walked over to the wall and pressed a button. "It's me," he said. "He's awake."

He turned back to Garrus. "It'll be ok," he said. "I'll make sure of it."

 

It seemed like the doctors were poking at him forever.

They finally finished examining his body and reflexes, when they started asking questions. What could he remember. Could he tell them the year he was born. He was saved when Lantar jumped in. "Lay off," he ordered. "It's been a long day, and he seems fine."

They listened, and retreated, leaving him and Lantar alone. "Thanks," he muttered.

"No problem," Lantar said. He'd ditched the lab coat. His clothes underneath were plain. He yawned. "It's the middle of the night," he said. "The monitors woke me up. I'm going back to bed. Is there anything I can get you first?"

Garrus shook his head. "Not hungry," he said. "Is there a place for me to stay?"

Lantar hesitated. "They made up a room for you, but it's covered in cameras. I can set up a cot somewhere else if you don't want to deal with that—"

"It's fine for now," Garrus said. "I might take you up on that later, though."

Lantar nodded. "Ok." He showed Garrus to the room, a small little thing that seemed more like a hospital room than any proper sort of quarters.

Garrus laid down, but kept his eyes open. He was afraid that if he went to sleep, then he might not wake up again. And he wasn't sure if that was a thing he wanted or not.


	5. Chapter 5

When Garrus woke up, he looked in the mirror, and recoiled.

He didn't look like himself anymore. His colony markings were mostly gone, only a few streaks of blue left. His eyes had an eerie blue glow, and there were places where some light showed through his skin.

He looked like—spirits, he looked like Saren, with the mutilated face.

With a pang, he thought about his family, and swore that they would never see him like this.

 

He couldn't find Lantar anywhere. The one person who had been kind to him, and he wasn't there.

As Garrus walked through the place, he felt the stares. None of the doctors bothered to hide their looking at him. It made his skin prickle.

He poked about the kitchen, and found some food. It tasted unremarkable, as bland as everything else about this place.

"There you are," a voice said. Lantar strode into the kitchen, carrying a datapad and several boxes. He dropped everything on the chair across from Garrus. "The Broker wants to see you."

"He's here?"

"No, he uses some sort of hologram. In the conference room." He jerked his head at a door. "He just got through with me. I suggest you brace yourself."

What for? Garrus wondered. He'd get his answer shortly enough. He abandoned his meal, and headed for the door.

The conference room was dark. Faint blue light reflected off a shiny wood table. A small apparatus sitting on the table flickered on, a hologram blooming into the air.

It was a vague figure. Preserved the Broker’s identity, and left Garrus frustrated that he was at a disadvantage.

"Officer Vakarian." The voice was masculine, with enunciated tones and a light accent that was unfamiliar to Garrus. "You're looking well. Glad to see that the project succeeded."

"Broker." Garrus's voice was flat. "Can we skip the formalities? I think I deserve some answers."

"Of course." The voice was congenial, refined. "I expect this is all rather a bit much. Ask your questions. I cannot promise you all the answers, but I hope I can put some of your fears to rest."

"Where's Shepard?"

"Ah. I regret to inform you that I don't actually know. The dead don't leave much of a trace, and contrary to popular opinion, I am not actually omniscient."

"Fine then." Garrus folded his arms across his chest. "So why? Why did you do this? And why me?"

"Simply put, I could use someone like you. An agent with your skill, your attention to detail, your tenacity. Your experiences with the late Commander I think will also prove invaluable."

"And Lantar. What's his deal? Have you really been keeping him a prisoner this whole time?"

"He won't be a prisoner much longer. He is to be your handler. He will be coordinating the details of your assignments."

"My handler?" Garrus snarled. "What am I, some sort of animal?"

"You're not the only one to suffer the indignity of being treated like an animal," the Broker rebuked him. "For your sake, I suggest you get over it quickly. You won't have time to brood where you're going."

"Where am I going?"

"Palaven. I'm in need of some information that was suppressed a long time ago. You'll get more details when you need to know them."

Garrus took a breath. "And what if I refuse to be your agent, and just walk away?"

A chuckle. "Oh I very much doubt it'll come to that. I think we're done here. You'll have a few days to prepare, so take full advantage of them. If all goes well, this will be the last conversation we have." The hologram winked out.

 

"Do you really need all these gun mods?" Lantar asked.

"No," Garrus admitted, “but the new technology is cool and it's not my money."

Lantar shrugged. "Ok. What about armor?"

"Haliat standard heavy. In blue."

"That's not very subtle."

"It's badass." Garrus grinned. "Blood blue. I won't feel right without it."

Lantar made a note on the datapad. "Ok. That should be everything. Omnitool, guns, armor. Anything else?"

Garrus hesitated. "What happened to my visor?"

"Oh." Lantar paused. "Let me take a look. It might've been put away."

Garrus reviewed the order while Lantar was gone, and added a small pistol and a set of light armor for Lantar's use. Teal, he thought. He might like that color.

Lantar came back, carrying a box. He opened it, and pulled something out, and his breath caught. "I—"

Garrus reached out, but Lantar hesitated. Garrus saw why. The visor was twisted and broken, covered with a thick black ash—oh.

"Is that—?"

Lantar swallowed. "Yeah." He dropped the visor back in the box like it had burned him, and set the box aside.

Garrus stared. Lantar didn't meet his eyes. "Well," said Garrus eventually, "add a Kuwashii visor to the order. Blue, if you please."

Lantar nodded stiffly and dropped into his chair and buried his nose in the datapad.

 

The days passed quickly. After the doctors checked him one last time and proclaimed him good, a small corvette docked a few hours later.

It was just him and Lantar, and he was glad for that. It would be good to get off that sterile space station, away from the doctors and the Broker 's cameras.

Lantar turned out to be a fair pilot. He undocked the corvette with ease, and soon enough they were heading to the nearest relay.

Garrus finished checking out the ship and returned to the cockpit, plopped down in the copilot's seat.

"Is there any information on our location?" he asked, curious.

"No. I expect that the nav data is locked until we reach the relay. The Broker really doesn't want us knowing where this place is."

Garrus shrugged. "Why are you going along with this?" he asked. "Why don't you just cut and run?"

Lantar hesitated. "Let's just say that the Broker has leverage on me," he said. "Leverage I really rather he not use."

"What kind of leverage?"

Lantar just shook his head.

They hit the relay, the electricity jumping through Garrus 's fringe and the motion tugging in his gut.

And then a system lay spread out before them, and Garrus inhaled. He knew exactly which direction Palaven lay in. Home.

"I'm dead," he said suddenly. "How am I getting through the docking checks?"

Lantar turned to him. "You saw all those crates in the back?"

"Yeah?"

"Most of those contain your new gear. One is empty."

"Oh." Garrus was suddenly looking forward to landing a lot less. So he was to be a fugitive on his own planet. He wouldn't be able to lose himself in the crowds and the sights and the smells and forget about what he'd been through.

Lantar misinterpreted his unenthusiastic tone. "I'll keep my com line open," he said. "You'll be able to hear everything that's going on. Don't worry."

It wasn't being stuck in a crate. It was everything else. Being shipped to Palaven in a crate was the least of his worries.

 

He'd been curled up in that crate for twenty minutes while Lantar argued with the docking authorities, and he had to pee.

Garrus twitched his mandibles in frustration, and tried to focus on Lantar 's voice.

"Yes, I understand perfectly," Lantar said for what had to be the third time. "I'm willing to accept demotion, but I can't wait here all day! I'm on a schedule."

Lantar had forged merchant's permits. The Shadow Broker must have had very excellent resources, because the permits had gotten them through without any trouble at all. Instead, it was Lantar's own citizenship status that was in question.

From what Garrus had put together, Lantar had as good as reneged on his Hierarchy status by deserting the military. But he hadn't been to any Hierarchy planet since, so the question had never been resolved.

And now the port officials were trying to resolve it while Garrus waited in the crate, squirming all the while.

"Loss of citizenship means loss of a number of rights that citizenship affords," an official said. "The hierarchy cannot protect you in Terminus. If something happens, we will not be able to come to your rescue."

"I've lived in the Terminus for years," Lantar said, his teeth clenched. "I understand the risks. I'm content with not being a full citizen."

There was a pause. "Very well. Lantar Sidonis, you are now no longer a citizen of the Turian Hierarchy. You will be listed at tier 3, a civilian. The change should be made official by the end of today."

"Thank you," Lantar said, his voice tired. "Now am I allowed to move my cargo?"

Garrus’s mandibles twitched. That was a serious thing Lantar had just given up. He wouldn't have any more rights than a child, or a volus.

But all that was driven out of his head when the crate was picked up and began to move. He was shaken around and turned on his side, and then an engine began rumbling underneath him. He bounced a little, wincing. Lantar's voice came through his com. "Careful with that!"

Yeah, careful, Garrus thought. Just got myself brought back to life, it'd be a shame to break this body so soon. He squirmed. He really had to pee.

During the journey, he tried to divert his thoughts.

His being alive was to be kept a secret, then. Garrus had expected that, but it still destroyed him. He wouldn't be able to reach out to friends or family. It's not like he wanted anybody from his old life to see him like this, a patchwork monster like the reaper husks, in thrall to the Shadow Broker—but it still hurt, knowing that he couldn't go back to what he'd had. Knowing that his days of being a real person were behind him.

Looked like the only things in his future were the Shadow Broker, assignments for the Shadow Broker, and Lantar.

He was ok with Lantar. The man had been coerced into the situation, same as him. What's more, Lantar actually seemed to care about him, rather than seeing him as something to be used.

He was curious about Lantar as well. Lantar Sidonis—a colonial name, and not a well known one either. Deserted the military, a serious crime. Somehow didn't mind losing his citizenship, and mentioned that he'd lived in Terminus. All that spoke to a life lived between the cracks. He could be a mercenary, but didn't seem the type at all.

Garrus would have to ask him. Find out how Lantar had ended up in this shitty situation. Maybe figure out what they could do about it.

The crate stilled as the engine died. Garrus picked his head up, listening. There were faint noises outside and he desperately prayed that he could be let out soon.

He wiggled as the crates were stacked. And then the movement and the noise stopped, and he was still stuck in the crate.

Fuckingdamnit Lantar where are you? he grumbled silently.

It seemed like forever before Lantar cracked open the crate lid. "Sorry," he said. "Had to wait til the warehouse guys cleared out."

Garrus sprung up and stretched out his limbs. "Thank the spirits," he said. "Let's get moving. Where are we staying?"

Lantar tilted his head. "Do you want to grab your gear first?"

"Nope." Garrus hopped out of the crate and staggered towards the exit. "You got us a hotel or something?"

Lantar followed him. "I booked us a room in the Old City," he said. "Not too far a walk."

"Excellent. Let's go."

 

He knew that they were in Cipritine, but knowing that they were in his home city and seeing it were two very different things.

The streets were as bustling as he remembered. He and Lantar had dodged through the crowds, into the Old City quarter where the buildings were made from white stone and silvery wood instead of steel and glass.

The hotel was lovely. Garrus didn't get a chance to appreciate it until he'd bolted to the bathroom. Once he could pay attention, he took it in, admiring the view of the cobbled streets from the open window. A nice breeze lit upon his face, and he could hear the chatter from the crowds below.

Lantar had a small bag that he tossed on one of the beds and unpacked. Some clothing, a few ration packs, and a datapad. He tossed a bundle of fabric to Garrus. "I thought it was weird," he said, "but I guess hoods are ok to wear on Palaven?" He shrugged. "It'll keep you from being recognized."

Garrus unfolded the hood. "It's common among off-worlders who just arrived," he explained. "The sun can be overwhelming for people not used to it." He pulled it over his head and adjusted it behind his fringe.

"Oh. In the Terminus it would just make you look suspicious. Everyone on Omega wears them. I mean, everyone on Omega is suspicious," Lantar explained.

Garrus glanced at him from under the hood. "You're from Omega?"

"Lived there, for a while," Lantar muttered.

"The sun here doesn't bother you?"

"I lived on Invictus for a long time. The sun's just as bad there."

"Where else have you lived?" Garrus asked, curious.

"It doesn't really matter," Lantar said, looking away. He plopped down on the bed. "It's 1400 hours local time," he said. "Hoped we'd have more time to prepare, but docking took way too long. I want to get your stuff and eat before sunset. Then we can do a little recon. I want to know what we're getting into."

Back to business, then. "What kind of information was the Shadow Broker interested in, exactly?"

"Some conspiracy theories from the Relay 314 incident, apparently," Lantar said. "I don't know exactly. I was just told where to go."

"I don't have to break into any government offices, do I?"

"Nothing like that," Lantar said. "Some old ruined temple, actually. It's just located in a central spot, so I'd rather wait until night so there aren't any people around."

"Gotcha," Garrus said. He yawned and lay down on the other bed, pulling the hood off. "I am taking a nap," he announced.

"Don't take too long about it,” Lantar said. "I've never actually been to Palaven before. I'm going to need your help to navigate."

Garrus grinned. "Not an issue. I know this city like the back of my hand."

 

The city was overwhelming.

The sun, the heat, the tall buildings, the crowds—it was all too much after the two years of isolation.

Vakarian fell asleep quickly. Lantar glanced over at him, wondering if he should take a leaf out of Vakarian's book and nap as well. It would probably be useless. His head was buzzing and his skin was too hot. He sighed and pulled out the datapad again, going through the objectives for what had to be the millionth time.

In a way, he kind of envied Vakarian. He hadn't had to live through the two years of his resurrection; he'd been dead the whole time.

He hadn't had to contend with two years of anticipation and worry, then have it all upheaved when the object of those anticipations had woken up and tried to strangle him.

Vakarian was not what Lantar had expected, and it was throwing him for a loop.

Oh sure, he'd read all the psychological reports, but they were a far cry from the real thing. And Lantar was sure that no report could take into account what happened when a person found out they'd been dead for two years.

The truth was, he thought he could grow to like Vakarian. Hell, he did already. Vakarian wasn't all intense and angry like the reports suggested. He was cocky, yes, but Lantar couldn't tell how much of it was actual confidence and how much was just bravado. And he could be mild and friendly, even in this situation, which had to be horrible for him.

He handed it far better than Lantar would've in his place.

And Lantar wasn't handling his own situation very well. He'd been short the past few days. He regretted it now, but he'd been so thrown by his conversation with the Broker and what he'd been told. Learning just what the Broker had planned to ensure his loyalty. Trying to grasp the implications.

He couldn't take it out on Vakarian. It wasn't fair.

Lantar glanced over at the sleeping Vakarian again. His sleep seemed troubled. He trembled slightly, murmuring something under his breath.

Lantar debated whether or not to wake him. In the end, he decided to let him sleep. Vakarian stilled eventually, and shifted under the blanket.

It made him seem much more like a person, and less like some implacable hero.

 

Implacable heroes are even more so when dead.

Shepard hovers in Miranda’s vision, in her mind. There is something locked in that body, something that makes a hero, and Miranda is determined to unlock it.

Something in that brain, carried on sparks of electricity. Something in the heart, stringy and stubborn, always continuing to beat. Something in the liver, that absorbs all the shit that life flings, and soldiers on despite it.

There is something about this body that is dangerous.

Miranda fears for her work, and has a long conversation with her boss. It's no use in the end. He refuses to let her install a control chip in Shepard's brain. He would prefer the uncertainty of free will rather than possibly stunting Shepard's potential.

Miranda retreats to her lab, gazes down at the body, hovering somewhere between death and life.

Soon, Shepard will wake. And if Miranda can't control her directly, she will need to find a subtler way. Shepard's loyalty will swing on trust.

Miranda only hopes she can win that trust.

 

Miranda isn't the only one who sees trust as a tool. The Shadow Broker is just more experienced in using it to his advantage.


	6. Chapter 6

"There."

Heartbeat. Heartbeat.

"On the monitor."

Yes. Almost there.

"Something's wrong."

 

"She's reacting to outside stimuli. Showing awareness of her surroundings." Wilson frantically taps away at the computers, flicking through data displays as fast as he can read them. Miranda watches his eyes jitter.

And then—

"My god," he whispers. "Miranda, I think she's waking up."

No. It's too soon. The neural work isn't complete. Beeping of the machinery. Miranda moves to the side of the operating table, standing over Wilson's shoulder. "She's not ready, damnit! Give her the sedative."

She bends down, watching the eyelids flicker. "Shepard." She addresses her creation for the first time. "Don't try to move." Speaking slowly, clearly, like addressing a spooked animal. "Lie still. Try to stay calm."

"Heart rate still climbing," Wilson mutters, feverishly putting in commands to the interface. "Brain activity is off the charts. Stats pushing into the red zone." He stabs at the screen with his finger. "It's not working!"

"Another dose, now," she commands. This is not the end. She will not lose Shepard to an error. Stupid, stupid way to go.

It will not happen. The computer beeps. Wilson speaks through an iron grate. "Heart rate dropping. Stats falling back into the normal range." He steps back from the computers and slams his fist on a table. The surgical instruments jump at the impact. "That was too close. We almost lost her."

"I told you your estimates were off," Miranda snaps. "Run the numbers again." She leans over Shepard, watching the eyelids close, the facial muscles relax. The breathing evens out.

 

No.

Almost there—so close—

Pulled back at the last minute.

So close.

 

So close, Miranda berates herself. So close to losing her.

Stupid for trusting those calculations to Wilson, stupid for not reacting quicker—stupid.

It cannot happen. The Lazarus Project will see completion. And Miranda is ready to walk into Hell to see it happen.

Shepard will live again.

 

Every time Miranda snaps, Wilson chews the inside of his cheek.

One night, it bleeds.

The Shadow Broker has offered him a lot.

The question is, can the Broker protect him from the wrath of Cerberus?

 

After Vakarian woke, he waved off all of Lantar's concerns about going out in public, and dragged him off to the market.

The market was only a few blocks from their hotel. Lantar trailed along after Vakarian, dogging his steps and trying not to get swept away by the crowds.

"The plaza was bombed out a few thousand years ago in one of the last great Palaveni wars," Vakarian explained cheerfully, gesturing to the buildings around them. Lantar couldn't see much of his face for the hood, impossible to tell what he was thinking. "The old armory in the middle of the square survived the bombing. The armory was the center of public life for a long time. So now we have the market in the plaza around it."

The plaza was riddled with tents, tables, and carts. Smells of unfamiliar spices hit Lantar's mouth. The armory dominated the area like some kind of hulking beast. The design was utilitarian, the craftsmanship superb. Lantar had lived most of his life in either prefab colonies or haphazard cities like Omega. This kind of planned architecture was something else all together. It might remind him of home, but that was something he didn't want to think about.  

"There are a few more things I want to pick up," Vakarian said, turning around. Lantar caught the blue glow of his eyes coming from underneath the hood. "I'm sure there's stuff you want too. Meet you at the front of the armory in an hour or so?"

"Yeah. Ok."

With that, Vakarian turned and vanished into the crowd.

Lantar wasn't sure where to go, what to do. He let himself be pushed along by the crowd, trying to take in all the sights. The noise and movement hurt his head. It'd been far too long since he'd been surrounded by this many people.

He finally managed to untangle himself from the crowd long enough to make one small purchase, then he headed towards the armory to meet Vakarian. Vakarian was smiling under the hood, a few bags over his shoulder. "Dinner," he said. "Then we can hit the warehouse, and do your recon. For whatever it is the Broker's looking for."

He dragged Lantar to a sidewalk café, and the plaza turned a dusky orange as the sun slowly set.

"So what's the deal?" Vakarian asked as the waiter left with their orders. "Some old temple—not Temple Palaven? That's the only temple I know of in the city."

Lantar nodded. "The Hierarchy bombed it the day the Relay 314 treaty was signed. The official note was that there was a bioweapons emergency. The Broker doesn't think that's the case. He wants to know what's really down there."

Vakarian flicked a mandible. "I remember that, actually. I was five at the time. Scared the hell out of me." He paused. "Why would the Hierarchy lie about something as serious as bombing in a civic area? Bioweapons? Is it really a good idea to go messing around with that sort of thing?"

Lantar sighed. "I don't know. But that's our orders. The Broker has a contact who will leave the gate to the containment zone open for a few days. If we can't figure it out within that timeframe…" He trailed off.

Vakarian nodded. They were on the same page. Neither of them wanted to risk a possible reprisal from the Shadow Broker.

It was off to the warehouse as stars began appearing in the sky, and the city lit up underneath the night. Lantar keyed open the bay, and released the lock on his crates. Vakarian dove in. It was like watching a little kid with presents, Lantar thought, as Vakarian carefully inspected each piece before setting it aside and opening another crate.

Vakarian eventually stepped back and rolled his head, cracking the joints in his neck. His new armor gleamed in the dim warehouse light. Vakarian looked like his old self. Maybe more dangerous even, with his eyes glowing underneath the visor.

"Are you good?" Lantar asked. "I'd prefer to get this done as soon as possible."

"Not quite," Vakarian said. "There was something else…where was it…" He rummaged through a few more crates, and eventually pulled out a case emblazoned with HALIAT ARMORY on it. He opened it up.

There was a light suit of armor inside. "What's that for?" Lantar asked. "You have your stuff."

"It's for you," Vakarian said, and handed over the case.

Lantar took it with shaking hands. "Why?" he asked.

Vakarian tilted his head. "We're going to be walking into some pretty dangerous situations from now on. Doesn't make sense for only one of us to be protected." He gestured to another, smaller case. "There's a gun for you as well."

"I…thank you." Lantar didn't know why he was so bowled over by this. He'd half expected Vakarian to see him as the chain keeping him tied to the Broker, and resent him for it. Apparently it was the opposite. That they were united in something, instead of opposed.

Lantar could be ok with that.

 

Under the cover of night, they slipped through the now-empty streets, Vakarian guiding them to the temple.

They didn't run into any trouble. Lantar had trouble moving in his new suit of armor; it was awkward, and moved in a very deliberate way. Maybe like being inside an Atlas, Lantar thought. He found himself having to think about how he moved before he did so, so that he wouldn't over or undershoot the movement and end up discombobulated.

Temple Palaven stood in contrast to the gleaming cleanliness of the rest of Cipritine. It huddled under the city lights, mostly a pile of rubble, surrounded by a tall fence plastered with warning signs. A large stone monument outside the fence marked the names of those dead in the bombing.

Vakarian paused in front of the memorial. "Desolas Arterius," he read. "I wonder if they were any relation to Saren."

Lantar had done his homework. "They were brothers," he replied. "I believe it was Saren who called in the bioweapons emergency and ordered the bombing. His brother was killed as a result."

Vakarian paused. "It sounds like the kind of thing Saren would do," he said eventually. "Do what it takes, at any cost."

Lantar shuddered. "I'd rather not think about it," he said. "Anyone who could kill their own brother…let's just get this over with."

They quickly located the gate. True to the Broker's report, the lock had been left open.

Lantar jumped at a sudden burst of light, but it was just Vakarian's visor initiating a scan. He paused for a moment, then pointed around to the back of the Temple. "There's a passage back there that we should be able to navigate," he said. "Looks like the structure was stable enough to keep it from collapsing in on itself."

"Ok," Lantar replied, and followed Vakarian's lead.

The pile of rubble towered above them. Lantar swallowed; his throat had gone dry. Vakarian poked at his omnitool, and called up a beam of light. The entrance yawned in front of them. Vakarian hesitated, and shone his light into that dark mouth, revealing a narrow stone staircase.

They descended in silence. Lantar could feel the weight of the Temple ruins pressing down on him. He shuddered, and stuck close to Vakarian's back. He kicked a small bit of rubble, and it clattered down the stairs, the sound swallowed by the dark.

They soon emerged into a corridor. Vakarian lifted his light, revealing that the smooth stone walls were emblazoned with strange symbols.

"This isn't any turian language," Vakarian murmured. "It looks…ancient. I've never seen anything like it."

"Can your visor get a match?" Lantar asked.

Vakarian's mandibles twitched. "Maybe. If I'd had time to fiddle with the programming. None of the standard translation programs are going to be of any use here."

Lantar shivered. "Let's keep moving."

Soon enough, they encountered the bodies.

They were like turians, but their massive forms were concealed by purple cloaks. Vakarian knelt down and uncovered one of them. The body had shriveled up, mummified by time and the dry conditions. There were wires and technology laced through the skin. But it was long inactive.

Vakarian replaced the cloak without a word, and stood and strode forward, a new tension in his shoulders. Lantar followed, occasionally glancing back, his imagination providing vivid images of the corpses coming after them. As he turned back again, he ran into something.

Vakarian had thrown out an arm to stop him. They stood in front of a hole that had been chipped out of the corridor wall, Vakarian's light gleaming off the chipped stone edges.

That wasn't the only thing that gleamed. Within, something was glowing a faint blue.

It was beautiful. Lantar had never seen anything like it. A crystalline monolith, its faces reflecting a light that seemed to come within. There was a hum in the air too, a low pitch that filled him with peace—

"Don' t touch it!" Vakarian's voice rang out. Lantar blinked, and he realized that he'd been moving towards the monolith, his hand stretched out—

" _Reapers_ ," Vakarian snarled. He grabbed Lantar's shoulder and yanked him back, sending Lantar stumbling. "Reapers in my _fucking_ city."

It was the first time he'd ever heard Vakarian swear.

"Come on." Vakarian grabbed his hand and dragged him bodily away. "We're getting out of here. I don't care if the Broker wants to know more, this is enough for me. Spiritsfucking _Reapers_."

They bolted out of the Temple like it was on fire. Vakarian's grip on his hand would've hurt if Lantar hadn't had the armored gauntlets on. They threw secrecy to the winds. Vakarian didn't slow down and didn't let go of him until they were safely back in their hotel room.

Lantar stripped out of his armor, trying to shake away that floating feeling and the sensation of that _humming_ in his brain. Vakarian merely collapsed on the edge of his bed, his head propped in his hands. " _Reapers_ ," he kept muttering over and over. "Fucking Reapers."

"What are Reapers?" Lantar eventually worked up the courage to ask.

Vakarian raised his head and his gaze snapped to Lantar's face. "That monster that tried to take down the Citadel? That was controlling Saren Arterius? And the geth? That was a Reaper. They're bent on extinguishing all organic civilization in the galaxy. And a Reaper artifact was fucking _rotting_ under Cipritine for all these years." He stared down at his hands, and Lantar could see that they were shaking. "Bioweapons my ass," he whispered. "That thing could've done more damage than bioweapons ever could." He took a breath. "Saren must've realized it as well," he added. "When he ordered the bombing. He prevented the Reapers from getting a hold on Palaven, only to fall to them years later."

Lantar still wasn't sure he understood about Reapers. But he did understand that Vakarian was showing cracks. Lantar had thought that Vakarian had bounced back from being dead very easily. Now, he wasn't sure that was the case.

He sat down on the bed next to Vakarian. "Whatever that was," he said, "it's buried. No one else is going to run across it. Cipritine will be safe."

Vakarian glanced sideways at him. His mandibles still quivered, but after a moment, he got himself back under control.

"Hold on." Lantar suddenly remembered the thing he'd bought at the market. He pulled it out of his pocket, and handed the small tin to Vakarian. "I got this for you," he said. "I thought it might help."

Vakarian took it without a word and unscrewed the lid, revealing the vivid blue pigment inside. "Thank you," he said after a moment. "The color's perfect."

"It had your family name," Lantar said. "Vakarian Blue."

Vakarian paused. "Yeah. The color is named for my family." He stood, clutching the tin in his hand. "I appreciate it," he said, and went into the bathroom.

 

The paint didn't help. Garrus stared into the mirror, the painted markings looking like some kind of mockery on his face. Light still showed from underneath his skin, his eyes still glowed like a damn husk, and the markings only served to draw attention to what he was. What the Broker had made him into. Some undead slave who was only good to go poking through Reaper leavings.

Garrus quickly wiped the paint off his face. It felt more honest going without.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter! I think this is going to be a transition into the next major part of things. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who has read and kudos'd/commented. And please, have a safe, healthy, and happy holiday season!

That night, as the shadows of the hulking ruins stretched out and made lines across the ground, Lantar huddled up in their tent with a datapad.

After a few minutes of thinking, he began writing.

_Day six. The Broker wants me to start sending weekly reports. I'm having trouble getting my thoughts together. Everything's kind of a blur. So maybe I can make sense of things by writing them down. It'll make the reports easier, at least._

_I kind of expected the Broker to be annoyed that we didn't do more investigation at Temple Palaven, but there was no way I could persuade Vakarian to go back there. So I just wrote what I found (with a lot of notes from Vakarian_ _—he's definitely more familiar with these Reapers than I am). The Broker seemed fine with it. He congratulated us on the good work, then threw something even worse at us._

_This planet is called Ilos. (Ee-los? Eye-los?) I guess it was a legendary world of the Protheans, considered lost for years, until Saren Arterius found it again. So of course, Shepard and her people found it too. There was something weird about a conduit_ _—a relay back to the Citadel_ _—not sure what the deal was. All I know is that the world is now off-limits to everyone except research teams. Which Vakarian and I are. On paper, at least. One thing about working for the Shadow Broker, you never have to worry about visas or other logistics. I assume he has people on the inside who take care of that. I don't really know._

_Speaking of people on the inside, one of the researchers from a salarian team is our contact. Telling the Broker things pays better than academics do, I guess. He feeds us research notes, the locations of other teams, and as-of-yet unexplored sites that might be of interest. So, during the day, Vakarian and I dig. At night, sometimes we'll go around and infiltrate some of the camps around and grab their data. It all gets compiled into this report that I'm going to be sending. Who knows why the Shadow Broker wants it._

_This place is creepy. The sky looks like it was poisoned, all green and yellow. Night is just as bad, because you can't see the stars for the clouds. Evening is the worst though. The light gets flat, and the shadows get long, and it's so easy to see things out of the corner of your eye. Especially with all the strange architecture, weird shapes, and those statues. Those things are everywhere. According to the research we stole, the statues are older than other buildings by millennia. Thousands of millennia. The theory is that this world was built by a species older than the Protheans, which the Protheans then colonized. Kind of like some worlds today built on Prothean remains._

_Vakarian hates being back here. He says it's not so bad now, because there are no geth, but I see him sometimes, always glancing above and behind us. He seems to take this whole place as a battlefield, and is ready to fire on shadows._

_I was stupid to think for a moment that he'd ever gotten over being dead. Those first few days of cheerfulness were probably due to shock more than anything else. He doesn't paint his markings on, he never goes without armor, and when we have downtime, he just seems to retreat into himself, like an animal into a shell. I don't know what the Broker expects, but I'm not sure how long we can keep this up._

Miranda spends her days huddled over scans, watching images jump past her.

This is the most delicate stage of the process. There is a body. A living body. There is a nervous system, carefully pieced into place by the tiniest nanomachines. There is something resembling a brain, something capable of life. She glances to the right, checking to make sure that the sedative levels are stable.

There isn't _Shepard_ , not just yet. She's sure that she scanned the brain a hundred times now. And yet—as damaged as it was, it's not enough to put Shepard's brain back together in its current state. The process of reconstructing Shepard's living brain to the moments before she died is amazing. So many models run, so many pieces arranged— _this_ molecule here, and a connection like that—electric signals and precisely the correct amount of chemicals, in the right places—it's been done digitally; President Heurta was alive and well—but physically, this is a whole new level of science.

If this goes right, Miranda muses, someone could take the technique and make a fortune off of waking up all the people over the last century who had their bodies frozen in hopes of a future.

But first, Shepard must wake, and live. Not some thing with Shepard's face—but Shepard, the woman, the Commander, whole, and alive.

 

_I've been trying to piece everything together. It seems in a way like we're retracing Shepard's footsteps. But why? What does the Broker want? First the temple, and now this place_ _—it's like Vakarian and I are lost in some past sins that we don't fully understand. Vakarian is far more than a mere agent for the Broker_ _—he wouldn't've spent two years and spirits know how many credits on him if that were the case. No. There's something about these investigations that's special. Something that Vakarian is uniquely suited for. And I can't figure out what._

_Enough stalling. I have to write the actual report tomorrow night. Sending things to the Shadow Broker always worries me, because I know he could have us both killed with a quiet word. Or worse, pull the levers he's got on me. I hate this._

Numbers, chemical formulas—they haunt Miranda day and night. Everything begins to blur before her eyes. Wilson eventually notices, and suggests she take a day off. It's not a restful day, because every moment is filled up to the brim with plans, plans, plans—she types them all out instead of resting.

Back to the grind.

 

It's soon. The time is coming. A muscle in Wilson's jaw twitches. A delicate balance. The switch has to be pulled at the right moment—early enough to catch Miranda and her Cerberus cronies off guard, late enough that Shepard is pretty much ready to go with minimal issues.

The Shadow Broker wants what the Shadow Broker wants. And Wilson knows that if he does not deliver, he will have a very long and painful time to account for the mistakes he made.

It will be soon.


End file.
